


Wake Unto Me

by outruntheavalanche



Category: Heroes (TV)
Genre: Abandoned Work - Unfinished and Discontinued, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Dark Crack, Dream Invasion, Dreams, Episode: s4e12 Upon This Rock, Gen, Grief/Mourning, Invasion of Privacy, Spoilers, Subtext
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-17
Updated: 2013-12-17
Packaged: 2018-01-04 23:00:01
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,508
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1086684
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/outruntheavalanche/pseuds/outruntheavalanche
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>Sylar slips undetected into Peter’s apartment—with the help of some newly acquired abilities—as he has for the last three weeks, and makes his way to Peter’s bedroom.</i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	Wake Unto Me

**Author's Note:**

> This is kind of, like, slightly crack-y. But also slightly angsty? And fluffy? IDK, IDK. Also features a kinder, gentler Sylar. WTF, I _hate_ kind and/or gentle Sylars. But, anyway. 
> 
> This wouldn’t have been possible without [**holdeverysong**](http://holdeverysong.livejournal.com/)’s ~~Jedi mind tricks~~ encouragement and  The Dream Encyclopedia by James R. Lewis and The Dream Catcher by Lori Reid.
> 
> Woefully unfinished. Hastily nabbed title from "Beautiful Dreamer," by Stephen Foster.

Sylar slips undetected into Peter’s apartment—with the help of some newly acquired abilities—as he has for the last three weeks, and makes his way to Peter’s bedroom.

Predictably, the bedroom is in complete disarray from—from lack of care, lack of attention, whatever. Sylar doesn’t care about the state of Peter’s bedroom.

Peter is bundled up in his bed, and Sylar can see the barrel of a revolver peeking out from under his pillow. Sylar allows himself a smirk before creeping even closer to Peter’s sleeping form.

Sylar can tell, just from looking at him, that this is probably the first halfway decent night’s sleep Peter’s had since his brother died—well, to put it more accurately, since Sylar reclaimed what was his. 

Peter’s eyelids flutter and his lips move, forming words that only ghosts can hear. Peter flings an arm out and for a second, Sylar thinks his cover’s been blown before he remembers Peter wouldn’t be able to see him even if he _did_ wake.

Sylar moves even closer to Peter’s bedside and materializes, the scattered molecules of his body shifting and stretching, fusing back together. Sylar reaches up and slides a hand through his hair before bending down until he’s close enough to Peter that he can smell his cool, minty breath. 

_At least he hasn’t_ completely _let himself go,_ Sylar thinks, with detatched amusement, taking in Peter’s stale-smelling t-shirt and stiff, unwashed hair.

Sylar presses the pads of his fingers gently, yet firmly over Peter’s forehead. Peter seems to sense something is wrong, even in his sleep, and Sylar feels the cobwebby haze begin to dissipate. He quickly tugs Peter back under.

“Looks like it’s time for a test run,” Sylar murmurs.

-

_Peter’s dreamworld isn’t much different than New York City. Granted, Peter’s version is darker and scummier—Sylar scrapes black sludge off the bottoms of his boots—but it’s still New York._

_Skyscrapers loom overhead like rows of sharp, black teeth._

_Bright taxis whistle by in a blur of yellow, black and white, and Sylar raises a hand to halt them with telekinesis, but nothing happens. The taxis continue to speed by, churning up more of the black gunk under their wheels._

_He’s powerless in Peter’s dreamworld. Interesting._

_Sylar feels a presence at his back and he turns. “Peter,” he says. It’s not a question._

_Peter emerges from the shadows, black cape fluttering at his ankles. He’s wearing a black mask, and an overly colorful and stylized_ **P** _adorns his chest. He lifts the mask from his face. “What is this?”_

_“We’re inside your head,” Sylar says._

_“What? This is all a dream?” Peter cocks his head, a strand of hair falling in front of his eyes like a slick black comma. Peter tucks it behind his ear. “Did you create this place, Sylar?”_

_“ _You_ did,” Sylar says. “This is your world.” He quirks the corner of his mouth in a half-smile. “In your world, I have no powers.”_

_Peter advances, eyes flashing, having gained his bearings. “You killed my brother. Prepare to die.”_

_Sylar bites back a laugh, diverts it into a mostly harmless smirk. “Your subconscious is a fucking cliché. I guess I shouldn’t be surprised.”_

_Peter stops, hesitates. “Have you—have you gone anywhere else in my subconscious?”_

_Sylar shakes his head. “I haven’t had a chance to explore.” Sylar raises his foot and shakes off more black sludge. “What_ is _this stuff?”_

_Peter approaches Sylar cautiously, like a nervous, skittish animal, and drops to a knee in front of him. He runs a gloved finger through the stuff, inspects it. He looks up at Sylar. “It’s—it’s rage._

_“Rage,” Sylar echoes._

_“Rage towards you, for taking Nathan from me,” Peter answers, though Sylar could have figured that out on his own. Peter stands and grabs hold of his utility belt. “It covers everything. Like soot.”_

_“It’s disgusting. You really ought to do something about it. Hire a cleaning crew.” Sylar reaches out and wipes his dirty hand on Peter’s cape._

_“I could kill you,” Peter says, non-threateningly, merely a statement of fact. “I could kill you here and you wouldn’t be able to do a damn thing about it.”_

_“You won’t, though. You can’t.” Sylar glances down at his hand. The scum is gone, but it still feels unclean._

_“No, I can’t.” Peter crosses his arms over his chest. “What do we do now?”_

_Sylar reaches out and lays his hand over Peter’s forehead. “You wake up.”_

-

Sylar lets himself into Peter’s apartment a week later, slipping in through the keyhole. This time, Sylar finds him in the living room, one leg thrown over the back of the couch, a half-empty bottle of beer clutched in one hand. A newspaper is spread out on the coffee table and Sylar creeps closer. The paper is dated four weeks ago—it’s Nathan’s obituary. Sylar materializes and closes the paper, folding it and tucking it under a stack of artsy books full of black and white photography.

The coffee table and the surrounding area—in fact, the whole room—are littered with empty bottles and cans, 

Peter shifts slightly, fingers opening, and the bottle slips from his hand. Sylar reaches out with his mind, catching the bottle just before it hits the floor, and sets it on the coffee table. Peter doesn’t so much stir.

Sylar shuffles closer and reaches out. He lay a hand lightly over Peter’s forehead. Peter’s eyelids begin to twitch.

Sylar closes his eyes and starts falling.

-

_Sylar lands on his back with a heavy, painful thump. He stands and brushes the sand off his dark coat._

_He’s definitely not in Kansas anymore._

_Peter’s subconscious has deposited him unceremoniously on a sandy beach. Turquoise waves lap at the shore in a soothing, steady beat. The beach seems almost too good to be true, polished up and idealized. Sylar reaches up to push his hair out of his eyes. He looks down and realizes he’s wearing nothing but a thin tank top and board shorts._

_“Cute, Peter,” he calls out, letting his arms drop to his sides._

_A palm tree sways as if in response, leaves rustling. Sylar doesn’t sense Peter’s presence, though._

_“Weird fucker,” Sylar mutters. He kicks his bare feet in the sand and looks out toward the vast body of water. The ocean’s surface is flat, despite the slight breeze, and he wonders what Freud might say about that._

_Peter drops down next to Sylar and he sits up, shaking sand out of his hair and clothes. “What did you do now?” he asks, gruffly. The tone doesn’t suit his voice, Sylar decides._

_“I don’t know. You tell me.” Sylar collapses next to Peter in the sand and sits crosslegged. Sylar gestures to the beach and the water. “What does this mean to you?” He slings a handful of sand with a sigh._

_“I—I don’t know,” Peter says, propping himself up on his elbows. He shields his eyes with his hand. “Maybe my subconscious decided to take a vacation.”_

_“Don’t think it works that way.” Sylar sifts through the grains of sand until his palms grow smooth. “You know what Freud said about water imagery in dreams?”_

_“No, and I don’t really want to,” Peter quips. “I’m sure it has to do with sex. Or my mother’s womb, or something.”_

_Sylar rests his arms across his drawn-up knees. “The black sludge is gone. Does that mean you’ve forgiven me?”_

_“No. Not yet. Maybe never,” Peter says, glancing over at Sylar. “It—the rage—it’s still there. There’s just less of it. It doesn’t cover as much as it did before.”_

_“That’s a good thing, right?” Sylar asks, scuffing his heels in the sand._

_“I don’t know. I don’t want this feeling to ever fade.” Peter cups a hand to his chest, where his heart should be. When he draws his hand away, Sylar can see his fingertips are stained black. “It’s the only thing I have left.”_

_Sylar shakes his head, with a snort of amusement. “Your subconscious is awfully maudlin.”_

_“What would I find if I went into_ your _subconscious?” Peter returns, eyes flashing in warning._

_“You wouldn’t survive more than five minutes in my subconscious,” Sylar hisses, reaching out and tilting Peter’s head toward him. He grips him lightly by the chin. “I’d pin you to the wall like a butterfly. And then I’d take you apart, piece by piece.”_

_Peter jerks away from Sylar’s hand. “What’s the point of all this, anyway? This is the second time you’ve hopped into my dreams. I_ know _you’re up to something. It wouldn’t be like you to_ not _be.”_

_“Why do I have to be up to something? Maybe I’m just enjoying myself a nice, relaxing vacation.” Sylar makes a face and sprawls out beside Peter, crossing his arms under his head, and stews in his righteous indignation._

_Peter raises his eyebrows. Sylar can hear the implied_ Well, duh _as clearly as if he’d read Peter’s mind. But he couldn’t have done that because he’s always powerless in Peter’s dreams. He thinks that says more about Peter than it does about him, though._

_“So, basically, you just hop into my dreams for shits and giggles,” Peter spits out, sounding disgusted, constricted._

_“I suppose.”_

_Peter wraps his arms around his knees. “Who’d you kill for this ability?”_

_Sylar blinks, momentarily caught off guard, but he recovers quickly. “What?”_

_“Who’d you kill?” he repeats._

_Sylar waves a hand dismissively. “No one you’d know.”_

_Peter shakes his head and laughs. “It’s a game to you.”_

_“No. It’s more than just a game. It’s a way of life,” Sylar corrects him._

_“Spare me the pseudointellectual bullshit. You know what you do is wrong. You just don’t care.” Peter looks at Sylar. “Can we end this now?”_

_“Okay,” Sylar says._

_Peter hesitates. “Am I going to remember this in the morning?”_

_“No. You never do. I make sure of that.” Sylar pauses. “Do you_ want _to?”_

_“No,” Peter says, “I don’t think I do.”_

_“Okay, then.”_

-

Sylar comes back a couple days later.

Peter is half hanging out of his bed, the comforter on the floor in a crumpled heap. His dark hair is plastered to the sides of his face with either sweat or tears, Sylar can’t tell. Probably tears, knowing Peter.

He looks troubled, eyes pinched at the corners.

Sylar strides forward, not even bothering to disguise himself with invisibility, and dives right in.

-

_Sylar picks himself up off the ground and wipes the back of his hand across his mouth. He glances down; blood stains his fingers. Sylar prods at an open, stinging wound on his cheek. The corner of his mouth is cracked and bleeding, and when he runs his tongue along the inside of his cheek, he can feel loosened teeth shift._

_Someone grabs him by the collar of his jacket and hoists him in the air. Sylar flies into a brick wall he’s sure wasn’t there before._

_“Talk about wish fulfillment.” Sylar chokes on the words, spitting out blood and broken teeth. He pushes himself to his knees and slaps the dust off his hands._

_Peter grabs him by the front of his jacket. “I’m going to destroy you.”_

_“I get that a lot.” Sylar smiles and reaches up, prying Peter’s fingers out of the material of his jacket. “No one has been able to follow through on that threat yet.”_

_Peter narrows his eyes, takes a step back. “They’re not me.”_

_Sylar cocks his head, smirks. “I dare you to try.”_

_Peter grabs Sylar by the back of the neck and presses the heel of his hand against his forehead._

_Sylar grabs onto his wrist. “What are you doing?”_

_“I’m destroying you, your memories,” Peter mutters, pressing harder._

_“It won’t work. It’s a dream,” Sylar chuckles. Blood trickles down his chin in a slow, unsteady line and he rubs his fingertips in it. It tastes coppery on his tongue._

_Peter hisses and shoves Sylar away. “You’re disgusting.”_

_“I’m well aware.” Sylar wipes his hands on his shirt._

_“I can’t even kill you in my dreams,” Peter sighs, sagging suddenly, sounding defeated. He folds in on himself, and collapses to the ground on his knees. He bows his head as if in prayer._

_Sylar rolls his eyes and approaches slowly, the heavy soles of his boots crunching in the dirt. “Get up.”_

_Peter looks up at him. “What?”_

_“Stop moping and feeling sorry for yourself,” Sylar sneers._

_“You killed my brother,” Peter says breathlessly, sounding more surprised than anything else._

_“It’s been weeks. You’ve had time,” Sylar says, with a simple shrug._

_Peter pushes himself to his feet and grabs onto the front of Sylar’s jacket again. Another brick wall shoots up from the ground in a cloud of dust and Peter shoves back into it, hard. “Don’t you fucking_ dare _—” Peter sputters and the words die on his tongue, he’s too angry to speak. He steps back and presses his hands over his face._

 _Sylar watches him, curiosity piqued. He tugs at the front of his jacket and smoothes out the wrinkles. “Don’t I dare_ what, _Peter?” Sylar prods, gently. The more he pushes, the more likely Peter is to attack him again, but he doesn’t care. He can handle anything Peter Petrelli could possibly throw his way._

 _“_ That. _Don’t act like_ I’m _the one who’s in the wrong.” Peter’s eyes cut hard and sharp._

_“We see things differently,” Sylar says, matter-of-factly._

_Peter lashes out again, this time with his powers. He catches Sylar in the chest with a pulse of pure energy, and Sylar goes flying. He crashes into the wall and lands face-first in the dirt. The pain in his chest is weird and unfamiliar, and Sylar wonders what else is broken now._

_“Get up,” Peter demands._

_Sylar ignores him, presses a hand to his chest. His breath comes in short, painful bursts. His ribs must be broken._

_“I said_ get up, _” Peter says, advancing, his arms held stiffly at his sides. Sylar can see his soles are caked in black scum._

_Sylar continues to ignore Peter, and presses a hand to his aching side. Peter reaches down and grabs him by the collar, jerking him to his feet in a single movement. Peter presses Sylar back into the wall and leans in, until all Sylar can focus on is the watery, barely contained hysteria behind Peter’s eyes._

_“Get out of my head, Sylar,” Peter says, quietly and calmly,_ too _calmly._

_“Why? Things were just starting to get fun,” Sylar coughs wetly, blood dribbling down his chin._

_Peter tilts his head. “This is_ fun _for you?”_

_Sylar offers him a teasing smile. “I’ve quite enjoyed my forays into your sick little mind, actually.”_

_Peter closes his eyes and bows his head. He presses his forehead wearily into Sylar’s shoulder and takes several deep breaths, trying to gather himself. “Get out of my head. Now.”_

_Sylar slides his hands over Peter’s shoulders. “Until next time.” He gently pushes him back._

**Author's Note:**

> And here were my notes for the rest of the fic:
> 
> \- Sylar keeps popping into Peter’s dreams. One, he cleans up. Another one, is a nightmare and he battles dragons or giant teddy bears or some shit like that, saves Peter. Next one Sylar learns how to manipulate Peter’s dreams. He creates things to make Peter happy. Except it’s Sylar’s idea of happy. Cat bringing the dead mouse to its owner, kind of thing.  
> \- Sylar subtly begins changing. Started hopping into Peter’s dreams for his own amusement. Remnants of Nathan keep him sticking around.  
> \- Any Peter/Sylar is merely subtext.  
> \- Sylar can create illusions. Creates Nathan for Peter. That doesn’t go over well. Peter wakes up and sees Sylar. Shit gets real.  
> \- lalala Sylar gets expelled from ~~schoool~~ Peter’s subconscious.  
>  \- Sylar starts feeling like he’s losing bits of his “essence” to Peter. He stops coming. Peter emos.


End file.
